


Spray Your Heart Over Mine

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe- Near Future, American Sign Language, Deaf Dave Strider, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Graffiti, Humanstuck, Illegal Activities, M/M, Mild Angst, Mute Dave Strider, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: In a country where money is king, poverty is rampant, and jobs are hard to come by, artistic expression is the language of the unoccupied. Unsponsored graffiti might be illegal, but that isn't stopping the artists who create it. In the capital of Skaia, one group—the Skaia 4413, known as the S4413—reigns as the most popular artistic collective. Their work is well known, the members are high on the city's law enforcement list of wanted criminals, and their boldness is unmatched. It's all fun and games with a side of underground sponsorship until a new group shows up and starts tagging over damned near everything.(Primarily a Homestuck DaveKat fic, hence why Three Houses isn’t a tagged fandom.)
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring & Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Across the Universes: A Collection of all my DaveKat Fics





	1. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Author's Note:**

> "Why are there three Fire Emblem: Three Houses characters in here?" Why the fuck not?  
> DaveKat is the primary pairing, followed by a tie between RoseMary and Caspar&Ashe/Linhardt for the secondary pairings. Why did I do this? I don't fucking know! UwU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.  
> It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out, it doesn't matter much to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's a link to the preferred version of the song for this chapter](youtube.com/watch?v=NN9iogpzVhc), from _Across the Universe_. i didn't beta this at all so aaaaaaaaay what the fuuuuuuuuck! hope you enjoy i guess?

**Monday, 4 January 2055** **  
** **Early Morning, Roughly 03:00** **  
** **612 East Highlands Boulevard, Skaia City**

Against the mirrored black glass of a pair of retro-style aviator shades, orange text flashes into view. It scrolls, then goes down a line, so as to not obstruct the view of the wearer’s current graffiti work. “Come on, come on. Dave, you’ve gotta be almost finished by now, right?” Dirk peers anxiously over his shoulder. Then, bright orange eyes swing back around to face his older brother. “Come on, dude, hurry up!”

The man in the shades responds. Tucking his can of spray paint beneath his arm, he holds his hands at chest level and to the side, with the palms facing upward. He wiggles his fingers. [Wait.]

“Cops are coming, dude.” Dirk groans, and exasperation is written across his tan features.

Dave nods. He flicks his gaze upward, to the corner of his vision, and studies the overlaid map. The blinking blue dots are moving closer, but they’re not advancing rapidly. He has time.

At the far, leftmost edge of his gaze, he sees another man—pale, slender, and with light grey hair—scrambling down from a balcony roof. “Yeah, they’re faking those coordinates. They’re a good yard ahead of that.” His words are shown in silver.

Seconds later, another individual, with larger muscles and a shorter build, comes crashing to the ground from the same perch. He stands, shakes himself off, and nods. His text is identical to the shocking turquoise of his hair. “Those fuckers will probably be here in around five minutes. I’m not getting my ass tossed in jail again, so I’m getting the hell out of here. Let’s go, Ashe.” He grabs the pale, grey-haired man’s hand and scrambles for the nearby alleyway.

Dirk, meanwhile, starts to frantically gather cans of paint. He throws them, haphazardly, into the duffel bag over his shoulder. “You’re just asking for this bullshit, Dave,” he cautions. The subject of the rebuke is reflected against the black of triangular shades—pale, tall, and with a fair bit of muscle. “Come  _ on _ .”

Just around the corner, the blue strobe lights of a patrol come into view.

Dave steps back. He eyes his creation, taking in the view of the bright red fox he’s brought to life against an otherwise bland wall of siding. A few deft movements of his arm form the rapidly scrawled tag of his group—S4413. With his masterpiece complete, he tosses the can into Dirk’s bag and nods. [Run,] he signs, making the movement as he begins to sprint down the darkened corridor. He follows behind Dirk, easily mimicking the slightly younger Strider’s acrobatic dodges and vaults.

“Your ‘artistic vision’ is going to get our asses turned into fine beef-grade grass one day, dumbass,” Dirk grumbles.

Dave shrugs.  _ “We’ll get busted sooner or later,”  _ he thinks. Dropping to the ground, with his weight pressed against the padded forearm of his tattered red sweatshirt, he slides beneath a length of rusting chain link fencing. He lets his momentum carry him forward, slowing himself as he continues down a grassy hill by digging his fingers into the damp mud.

“They’re on our asses. Turn left.” Dirk, only a few steps ahead, jumps. He grabs onto a fire escape and begins clambering up.

Dave, instead, opts to shimmy into the cold, familiar embrace of a drainage ditch. After a few minutes of crawling, he emerges on the other side of the block, where Dirk has already started up the pair’s motorbikes.

[Do you think Ashe and Caspar made it out okay?] Dave inquires. His furrowed brows and slightly open mouth indicate that he’s asking a question. His movements are sharp, with neatly defined ends and punctual, almost robotic beginnings to each sign. [I mean…] His fingers wiggle aimlessly for a few seconds as his mind stalls behind, perhaps still a bit high off the fumes from the spray cans. [Is it just me, or did Caspar run straight  _ towards  _ the cops?] He places emphasis on the word. With the index finger of his left hand pointing upwards, he sweeps the forward-pointing finger of his right to meet its tip. The movement is a bit larger than it needs to be, and its finish is muddled as he begins pulling on his riding gloves.

Dirk, already dressed to ride, shrugs. [I’m sure they’re fine. We’ll go check on them at Lin’s shop later. Now, shut up and drive.] The lenses of his shades turn a deep, amber red. The lights from his bike’s display pulse, dull orange, against the solid black of his leather jacket. A puff of grey smoke sputters from the engine. The tires rumble against the asphalt. Then, he zips into the darkness.

Dave follows. Like Dirk, his shades have a built in night vision function; the colors change, and his vision clears enough to take off down the alleyway. He’s had enough practice to be able to pull off hairpin turns, and he knows the area well enough to know which side streets lead to dead ends. Before long, he’s back where he calls home.

The rows of stolen, scavenged, and reclaimed doors that line each floor of the crumbling parking garage are each marked with their own signs of residency. Here, there’s a wreath made of tin cans. Next to it, there’s a hand-painted sign. Dave’s door, however, is predictably covered in graffiti. It leads to a space just large enough for two beds, a small kitchen, a beaten down sofa, and a recently-broken television. Two walls of cobbled together lumber, discarded masonry, and concrete chips divide this space from that of the neighbors’.

A woman, her skin the perfect medium between Dave’s paleness and Dirk’s deep tan, greets Dave with a smirk. When she speaks, her words appear in a deep, purple-leaning shade of pink. “You’re back home early.”

“And you forgot your helmet again, you incessant fool,” Dirk calls as he emerges from the fridge, with a half-eaten sandwich clutched in his hands. “I keep telling you to put one on, and you know that Vriska and Terezi would trip over themselves backwards to sell  _ the  _ Dave Strider a helmet. When death finally comes to knock on your eternally open door, and your brains end up as an irreverent Pollock splatter on some city pavement, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” Dirk’s left hand waves dismissively in the air, while his right busies itself with popping open a lukewarm bottle of soda.

“I concur with all of these statements, and would also like to remind you to wear your respirator. You’ll have little grey matter left if you keep standing nose-to-wall with copious servings of toxic fumes,” the woman’s commentary doesn’t need to be heard for the recipient to understand its inherent snideness. “By the way, did you notice that there’s a new crew in town?”

“Hm?” Dave’s right brow raises above the upper boundary of his shades. The ground beneath his feet shudders beneath the weight of a suddenly dropped backpack of spray paint. [Those VM shitheads? They’re just toys.]

“What do you think, Rose?” Dirk chimes in, “I think our  _ leader  _ is just a little salty that some new band of idiots have started putting up some different styles over his old crap.” If it were given life as a physical force, the smirk on his face would easily topple a skyscraper. “It’s not like that old throw-up of ours was worth anything. The cops had already tried to put a legally commissioned piece over it. That might as well have tanked the value of it to below the levels of the Great Depression.”

[It’s still rude as hell.] Dave shrugs. He does his best to play off his broiling indignance over the whole ordeal, though he’s keenly aware of how badly he’s doing. [Does that bottle have booze in it? You’re not old enough to drink. You’ve still got another year.]

“Says the same person who lives in an old parking garage due to his own stubborn insistence upon deriving an income from  _ illegal  _ revolutionary street art?” The simpering smile on Rose’s face feels like low heat beneath an already bubbling pot. “That said, I’m fairly certain it’s an alcoholic root beer. Dirk, it’s unwise to vacuously murder your brain cells like that. If you kill any more, you might even end up like Dave.”

“And that would be a shame so epic it would rival the Odyssey, correct?”

[Both of you can fuck off.] Dave rolls his eyes. He reaches into the fridge, pulls out a beer, and pops the top off with a stray edge of unfinished countertop. [I’m going to go cover that stupid shit, now.] He grabs his bag and exits the space. Following the familiar halls eventually leads him outside, to the back wall of the complex. Here, inconsiderately slapped over one of his earliest bomb-style murals, is the ornate, medieval style lettering of a new group.

_ “Fuckin’ stupid assholes,”  _ Dave thinks to himself, shaking up a can of his preferred white paint.  _ “Tag over my shit and see what happens.”  _ He begins to put up a basic outline. Considering his sleeping schedule, it doesn’t make any difference to him if he stays awake all morning. He’s more of a night owl, anyhow. It’s not like he can do any art during the day, after all.

* * *

**Monday, 4 January 2055** ****  
**Morning, Roughly 11:00** **  
** **Linhardt's Spray Supplies, 3A North Cumberland Street, Skaia City**

Karkat Vantas is an imposing figure. He’s wide-shouldered, a bit on the heavier side, and his voice is akin grinding gravel. For a man barely an inch above the five foot mark, he forces himself to have a presence, and he stands firm on his own ground. “Look, dumbass, I’ve got the fucking cash. Are you going to sell me this spray paint, like a goddamned specialty store owner should be absolutely enthralled to, or not?”

“Well,” Yawns the cashier, the store’s namesake Linhardt. For the owner of a renowned underground graffiti supply store, he doesn’t look the part. In fact, with his pale skin and lanky build he looks more likely to run a library. He tugs at his long, dark green hair. “Let me put it this way. If you shut up for five minutes, and let me see your identification card, I will. Deal?”

“Since when do graffiti stores, which are already fucking illegal, might I point out, care about forms of identification?” Despite his protest, and the brief moment of combing his hands through his lightly curled, solid black mess of hair, Karkat obliges. He opens his wallet and tosses his I.D. across the counter. “I’m not local. Does it matter?”

“There are people wandering around tagging over a well known group’s work around here, so I’d have to say it does matter.” Linhardt studies the card. He slaps it on the scanner, and another yawn escapes him as the printer begins to spit out the copy. “And, personally, I’m a little partial to that local group, since I sponsor them.”

“Hmph.” Karkat bristles at the commentary. Brown eyes, flecked with spots of silver, glare at the indifferent cashier. “And who’s the group?”

“S4413. I’m sure you’ve seen their stuff. I have… Hm… Personal ties to the group, so I am, of course, a fan. You’d be wise to stay away from toying with their pieces. Not only will the local scene be unhappy with you, but I just might decide to stop selling to you.” Linhardt plucks the card from the scanner, hands it back to Karkat, and waves. “Now, if you don’t mind, your yelling is really putting a damper on my current mood. Please leave.”

“If this wasn’t the only place to get your hands on some decent paint, I can assure your snotty ass that I wouldn’t be here,” snaps Karkat. He gathers his recent purchase in his arms and scurries out the door. Now, armed with fresh supplies, he’s more than confident that he can cover up the eyesore that had been so callously plastered over his debut piece. He ducks into a nearby alcove in the crumbling brick of the underfunded historic district. Here, in the cover of shadows, he dumps his purchases into an old grocery bag, which he then hides inside a paper bag. In a city where simply carrying the supplies is a fine, he’s not going to take a chance.

He exits his spot and returns to the nearest bus stop. As he waits, he pulls out his phone.

“Oh. You procured the necessary items?” inquires the voice on the other end.

“Got everything, Kanaya,” Karkat responds with confidence. “Since nobody gives a fuck about that ugly eyesore of a building, it won’t be guarded. We can start tagging now.”

“Why not? I’ll join you shortly.”

“Great.” Karkat hangs up just as the bus arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have 500 fics unfinished right now but AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. i'm still trapped on [tunglr](https://godtiermeme.tumblr.com/) and i also have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/sealandisreal).


	2. Ocean Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter primarily focuses on DaveKat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link to the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6E5m_XtCX3c) As per usual no beta reading here because I'm an idiot. Thanks for reading.

**Wednesday, 6 January 2055** **  
** **Early Morning, Roughly 01:15** **  
** **“Parkington” Shantytown, Eastern Skaia City**

“They did it again, dude,” Dirk says, shaking his head. “Can’t leave a cute baby seal bomb work to the masses for a damn day, and they toss up a fancier tag. Pretty nice work, really. They must’ve done it in… Hm. Maybe five or six hours? If it weren’t for the blatant disrespect they’re exhibiting at this exact moment, I’d have to give them some serious respect.”

Dave responds with a low growl. He continues shaking up his can, now with more vigor than before.

“Oh, boy, bro’s pissed.” Dirk steps back. “Don’t blow a gasket, dude, you’ll just end up with your mess everywhere. Then what? We’ll have to massacre this whole wall just to get all your grey matter off of the cinder block. And that would be un-bro-lievably uncool of you.”

Three floors up, from where he’s spraying an upside-down monochrome of a flying pig, Caspar chimes in with his commentary, “Do you have any sort of plan, or are you just going to go for it?”

“Looks like he’s just going for it.” Dirk shrugs.

The can comes to a shuddering, sputtering stop as it empties out in Dave’s hand. He tosses it aside, not really caring where it goes. They’re in the middle of a blighted concrete jungle; any environment left to be polluted is long gone. He has an image in his head—a massive phoenix, its feathers golden orange. Normally, he’d be referencing his sketchbook. This time, he’s just going to plan it in real time.

In bright red, he sprays a rough outline of a raised middle finger.

**Wednesday, 6 January 2055** **  
** **Late Afternoon, Roughly 16:00** **  
** **“Parkington” Shantytown, Eastern Skaia City**

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” swears Karkat, hurling a can of grey paint at the wall. It dents, but doesn’t burst. “How many times do I have to cover this asshole’s shit?” There’s a resounding, metallic, clanging  _ thud  _ as he drops his bag to the ground. He studies the colorful, blocky image of a middle finger tagged before him. “It’s not even a classy reply.”

Kanaya, a tall, slender woman with a graceful figure and skin as dark as the most beautiful nighttime sky, hums. She rubs her chin. “It has quite a style, though. I could almost admire the workmanship of the piece, had it not been rudely overlaid on top of our own.”

“Really?” Karkat begins to shake his can of preferred grey paint for outlining. “This toy didn’t even bother filling in this ugly monstrosity. Look at the dripping on it! I’ve seen eyesore commission pieces, in all their vapid, consumerist glory, that have more inherent value than this. Fuck. Throwing up a shitty, half-assed smiley face is nicer than the slop this bastard’s coughed up.”

“Whatever you want to say about it, Karkat,” shrugs Kanaya. She glances down at her phone, no doubt texting her long-time long-distance girlfriend, Rose. “Oh. How horrible!”

“What?” Karkat doesn’t look away from his work. Right now, he carefully outlines the shape of a crow. The wings are spread, and its beak opens wide, in a screech of defiance.

“I have told you of how Rose’s brother is a tagger, too, have I not? Well, someone sprayed over his crew’s work. Awful. Quite rude of them to do so. She says they rectified the situation this morning, though, so I suppose that is a positive ending.”

“I guess.” In all honesty, Karkat doesn’t really care about the happenings of Rose’s brother’s crew, whoever they may be. He’s more concerned about getting a foothold in a new city. Whoever the S4413 may be, they’re a thorn in his side, and their rebuttal is a disgraceful thumbing of their nose on top of a budding rivalry. “Are you just going to fucking stand there and text some heart eye emojis, or are you going to help?”

“Give me a moment, shouty,” quips Kanaya. She sends another message, then pockets her phone and opens her own bag. After glancing at Karkat’s sketchbook, which lays open on the grass, she, too, begins to work. She moves behind Karkat, filling the work in with careful, precise applications of various layered colors. She’s always been the brains behind the style, which relies upon heavy use of vivid, often odd color combinations. “How long do you estimate it will be before they figure out we’ve covered their work again?”

“I don’t know. I’d say by tomorrow.”

* * *

**Thursday, 7 January 2055** **  
** **Early Morning, Roughly 03:30** **  
** **“Parkington” Shantytown, East Skaia City**

Dave is the first to discover the new cover-up work. He sees it as he meanders through the turf-covered recreational space to the rear of the building. Perhaps it’s the subject matter, a bird, that gets him. He’s always had a soft spot for birds. Maybe it’s the way the rainbow of colors blends together, bleeding into one another like watercolor. It’s an impressive piece, and it’s something he honestly couldn’t try to figure out how to do in a hundred years. He’s more of a color block type of person, with clean lines and rigid edges. It matches how he signs and how he sees the world. There’s good and there’s evil; there’s dark and there’s light. Hell, most of the members of the S4413 feel that way, so it’s really no surprise that they prefer more linear art.

Sure, the crow has covered the upper half of his half-assed retort, but it’s better than what he did. Frankly, he wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of meeting the artist. So, after sending a text to his brother, he settles into a spot of peeling, faded green faux grass and leans against the wall.

**Thursday, 7 January 2055** ****  
**Morning, Roughly 11:00** **  
** **“Parkington” Shantytown, East Skaia City**

“They didn’t cover it?” It’s less a question and more of a comment. Frankly, Karkat is perplexed. The presence of a man, his eyes cloaked behind reflective black sunglasses, only adds to the confusion. “Why didn’t they bother covering it?”

The unknown man seems to take interest in Karkat. He turns towards him, pulls the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, and cocks his head to the side. There’s a momentary pause, during which the two men both wonder if they know one another from somewhere. Then, without warning, the man replaces the cigarette and writes a reply in a notepad. When he’s done, he approaches Karkat and hands him the notepad.

“My name is Dave Strider,” the note begins, “I’m the official-unofficial head of S4413. You know, that band of punks whose hard work you’ve been annoyingly crapping on top of? It’s been annoying as fuck, but this one is pretty decent. I stuck around to see if you wanted to join.”

After reading, Karkat returns the notebook. His eyes are naturally drawn to movement, and he watches as Dave absentmindedly spins his red pen between his fingers. “Join what? Your dumbass ragtag group, I assume? What is it? I assume it’s just you, some random creep, who I assume stationed your ass right here all night to wait for me to show up.”

Above the distant rush of late morning traffic is the harsh scratching of a ballpoint pen against the last few pages of pocket-sized notebook. This time, when he’s done, he doesn’t bother passing the notebook. Instead, he simply holds it aloft.

“It’s me, my younger brother, and two others randos we scooped up along the way. We’re all legal adults, it’s all about as above the table as you can get with this sort of shit. It’s just an offer. You don’t  _have_ to take it if you don’t want to. No cracked enamel off my teeth, but it seems to me like you’re fresh meat in a city of Pisscassos. You can take your chances with random tags like this, or you can join us.”

Karkat replies with instinctive, vindictive anger. He’s never been one to join groups. Or, rather, he has in the past, and it’s never gone well. His ideas aren’t revolutionary enough, it seems. If his art isn’t inherently and obviously political, then what is its value? “Me? You? You look like the rustiest, most useless thing in Paul Bunyan’s toolbox. I’ve met goddamned traffic cones with more inherent personality than you. And what the fuck is with the writing? I assume it’s part of your whole act?”

Another pause.

“I’m Deaf. My shades have a speech processor built in, so they relay speech as text.”

“Oh.” A weight suddenly pressed down on Karkat’s shoulders, and he recognizes it as the characteristic seedling of rising anxiety. He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh… Fuck. I didn’t know that.”

Dave shrugs. His expression is as flat as it had been when Karkat had first noticed him, though his posture is more relaxed. “No problem. My brother usually interprets for me, but he’s a little busy dealing with some sort of fiasco down at Linhardt’s shop.”

“You’re the group the graffiti shop sponsors?” Karkat groans. He buries his face in his hands.  _ “Of course, Vantas,”  _ goads his inner monologue,  _ “Fuck your fresh start up just like you’ve so hopelessly and eagerly boned every other opportunity in your life.” _

Dave nods. “Look, I’ve got to go and finish up a piece across town. If you agree to not tag over this place again, that’d be super, since I kind of live here. I’ll leave you caw caw motherfucker up, and we can call it a truce. You don’t have to join me if you don’t want to, but you can drop by my place if you want to. I’m in parking spot 235. Drop by later tonight or tomorrow. Do you have a crew, or is it just you?”

“Kanaya does the color work. I know that means fuck-all to you, but, —” Karkat finds himself cut off mid-sentence by a whistle.

For a brief moment, a smirk is spread across Dave’s face. “Since not many people in the world are named that, I assume she’s dating my sister.”

“Rose?” Karkat asks, incredulous of the claim.

Another nod.

“Of fucking course. Everything I do gets fucked umpteen ways to sideways, doesn’t it?”

“That sounds a whole fucking lot like a personal problem.”

“Whatever.” Karkat waves his hands in the air. It’s a dismissive gesture, but he’s sure it makes him look like he’s either battling a swarm of unseen flies or trying to mock Dave. At this current moment, with anxiety taking a firm hold on his mind, he doesn’t really care which way Dave interprets it. Or, perhaps, he cares a bit too much how Dave takes it. Regardless, he doesn’t try to correct the situation. “I won’t trash your hideous shit, and I guess I’ll talk to Kanaya about joining you all. Since she’s already dating Rose, I’m sure she’ll agree to your terms.”

After shoving the notebook into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, Dave offers a double thumbs up. A small half smile makes a fleeting appearance on his face and, without much further warning, he turns and leaves.


End file.
